


As Time Goes By

by catrinwrites



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: AU, Eventual Smut, F/M, Slow Burn, there will be angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24583351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catrinwrites/pseuds/catrinwrites
Summary: AUClaire Beauchamp never dreamed that after the war she would become a Hollywood film star.She also never dreamt that her career would cause her to find - and then lose - the love of her life.But when, in all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she encounters someone from her past, she finds she may have a chance to make things right.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser, Jamie Fraser/Laoghaire MacKenzie
Comments: 113
Kudos: 101





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! A new idea I couldn’t get out of my head... a little La La Land, a little Ryan Murphy’s Hollywood, a lot a tribute to classic American cinema... after the prologue, we’ll jump back to the beginning of the story.

1952

Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp never dreamed that she would become an American film star. 

It couldn’t have been further from her mind. 

A move to the states with her then husband - the lousy cheating bastard - after the war… him being hired to consult for “historical accuracy” on some big budget film about the Jacobite revolution (a flop in the states, predictably)... Claire, starting as a script writer, just as something to do, before climbing the ranks as first, an extra, and then a company player, before becoming a leading lady in her own right… discovering the exact way in which his secretary went above and beyond for him off the clock…

But none of that ultimately even mattered, because it led to _him_.

And then he was gone.

Claire took a long, lingering sip from her martini, draining it dry. Her manager, a fierce and no nonsense fellow ex-pat named Gillian Edgars, would admonish her if she found out. “What, ye canna get sloshed in your mansion? Ye have to go out and show all of Hollywood?” Claire could all but hear it.

This smoky, dimly lit bar didn’t seem to hold any paparazzi tonight, though. Nearly empty, there were a few couples, a few more singles, and one very bored looking barkeep. Nobody could have cared less about the actress in their midst. 

Truth be told, it was damned depressing. And lonely.

As Claire drank, she let her mind wander over everything and nothing. Drifting from subject to subject, she signalled to the bartender for another drink. Gillian worried too much.

Claire glanced down at the delicate silver watch that graced her left wrist. Hours before closing time, and she had no desire to leave.

Lifting the second (or hell, third) martini to her lips, she was aware of the door behind her opening, and she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

Setting her drink down, she turned over her shoulder, sure that it was nothing.

She was wrong.

Her eyes met the deepest, most piercing blue eyes she’d ever seen in her life - eyes she was certain she would never see again.

For a moment, it was as though time stood still.

Then, he spoke. Softly - softer than she remembered - but with that same Scottish burr that sent shivers down her spine even now.

“It’s been a while, Sassenach.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a roll - don’t expect double chapter updates often, but what else can a girl do on a socially distanced Saturday night?  
> We’ve jumped back to 1947 here - I’m not sure how much time hopping I’m going to do, but I’ll always post the year at the top of the chapter if it changes drastically :)

1947

“Claire, darling, are you quite ready? We can’t be late for our first day.”

Claire smiled at her husband from her vanity in their room in their new little bungalow. “Nearly, Frank.” She added another pin to the smart little hat she had purchased for her first day of work and stood, satisfied it would stay firmly in place despite her overly curly hair.

“Lovely, as always,” Frank said, kissing her cheek. “It would almost make a little tardiness worth it…”

Claire laughed. “Oh, stop. I’m excited to go.” 

And it was true. Though she had always loved stories and storytelling, a career in the film industry after the war was hardly on her radar, as it were. She hadn’t really had any kind of plan, short of resuming her life with Frank.

But he, surprising her to no end, informed her a week or two after their reunion that he had been offered a temporary job - perhaps to become permanent - as a historical accuracy consultant for a film about the Jacobite revolution. 

_“An Englishman as a consultant? Really? You don’t think they’d want someone Scottish?” Claire had asked teasingly._

_Frank waved his hand. “Believe me, I wash my hands of the story they tell. I’m mostly there to tell them about battle formations, how things went, the like - giving it an air of authenticity, if you will. The Yanks will need my help; have you seen how they only care for spectacle in their films? I mean, really…”_

And off they went. They spent a brief second honeymoon in New York City, which delighted Claire, and then made their way across the country to Hollywood.

The weather in California was nothing like Claire had ever experienced in England - to be honest, even in all of her travels in her childhood, it wasn’t like anything she had experienced anywhere. The bright sun beating down, the cool sea breeze - it nearly made Claire laugh with joy when they stepped off the plane.

“Ah, here, darling,” Frank said, procuring a small case from his coat pocket. 

Claire opened it to reveal a pair of - by all accounts rather overly dramatic - sunglasses.

She tilted questioningly her head at Frank, but then put them on. Pouting her lips, she asked, “How do I look?”

“Like a veritable Hollywood star,” Frank said as he took her arm.

Claire felt like a Hollywood star as they drove off. Frank had indulged in a convertible rental, and with the wind tossing her hair about and her dramatic sunglasses, she felt she might as well have been Ingrid Bergman or Vivian Leigh.

It hadn’t taken them long to find a cute little house to rent at a decent price, and they settled into their new life together.

Claire had to admit that it was certainly exciting; she loved strolling up and down Sunset Strip and wondering if she was passing movie stars, or soon to be movie stars. It seemed that everyone there dreamt of stardom, and the sense of possibility was intoxicating.

And so, on her first day as a script typist, Claire absolutely couldn’t wait to get to the studio lot. Frank had explained that it was incredibly large; that there were massive sound stages everywhere and that production of multiple films would happen at once, all while acting classes were happening, scripts were being written, and films were being edited.

Pulling up to the gate in front of the lot, Claire was in absolute awe. Innes Studios was even grander than Frank had made it sound. She grinned happily at Frank as he glanced over while the security guard checked his credentials. He squeezed her knee in acknowledgment.

“Now, I won’t be able to see much of you today,” Frank cautioned. “You’ll have to keep yourself busy in the script department - I imagine you’ll be trained today - and I’ll be meeting with, I suppose, producers and writers and such for most of the day. I won’t be able to be disturbed.”

Claire nodded; it suited her to be left to her own devices, particularly in a setting as fascinating as this. 

Frank pecked her on the cheek, pointed her in the general direction of the writers’ building, and strode off.

Claire straightened her skirt and drew a deep breath, deciding to take just a moment to take it all in. So enraptured was she at the sheer extravagance of the studio lot that she didn’t even notice the man rushing towards her until they collided, knocking the air out of her.

Claire fully expected to hit the ground most unceremoniously, but her assailant managed to catch her before either of them went down.

“I’m sae sorry, lass,” the man said, helping her right herself. “I was in a hurry and wasna looking where I’m going. Are ye okay? Are ye lost?” He held her back at arms length, examining her for injury. Ordinarily, Claire might have been put off by the familiarity of the contact, but not now, for some reason.

“No, I’m sorry - I was so distracted - it's my first day in the script department and…” she looked at the man closely. He was quite tall and strongly built, and in the way that would only make sense in the modern world on a studio lot, he wore full seventeenth century Highlander regalia; coupled with his flaming red hair and thick Scots accent, Claire didn’t have a hard time deducing his purpose. “Are you working on the Jacobite film?”

He grinned at her. “Aye - what gave it away?”

“Your footwear, definitely,” Claire said dryly, looking at his feet. The man carried a pair of tall boots, but wore modern shoes with his otherwise period attire.

He threw his head back and laughed. “Aye, they dinna want us ruining studio property walking about, so…” he held up the boots. “Ye’re a witty one….” he tilted his head, and Claire realized he was seeking her name.

“Claire. Claire Randall. My husband is working on your film as a consultant; that’s why we’re in the states.”

Almost imperceptibly, disappointment flickered across the man’s eyes. “Jamie Fraser, at your service, madam,” he bowed in a grand, exaggerated way. 

Claire laughed in spite of herself. “You are the most ridiculous human,” she said, then blushed at her own forwardness. “I mean - “

“Dinna fash,” the man - Jamie - smirked. “It’s better to be ridiculous than a Sassenach,” he said teasingly.

Added to the category of things that Claire knew she should have been offended by, she nonetheless found she didn’t mind the slight at all.

“Better to be a Sassenach than to be late,” Claire retorted pointedly, barely concealing her grin. The conversation she was having with this man reminded her of some of the more playful conversations she would have with soldiers she tended during the war; it was comfortable for her, and immensely enjoyable.

Jamie made a Scottish sound deep in his throat. “Ye have me there. I’ll see ye around, Sassenach?”

“I suppose you will,” Claire said, and, with a smile, turned on her heel to head into the writers’ building.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I don’t have much JC in this chapter; had to get some exposition in. They’ll be their flirty selves again soon!

“I met one of your actors today,” Claire said, as she and Frank embraced. She had been so busy once she made it in to work that this - meeting him in the parking lot at five - was, honestly, the first time she’d spared a thought for him all day. 

Frank’s brow furrowed with concern. “I do hope you weren’t a bother to them,” he started. “You know that the actors don’t have time to bother with fans-“

“Oh, no, it wasn’t like that,” Claire assured her husband as they both got in the car. “He bumped into me in a hurry to get to the set; he was most kind in making sure I didn’t get hurt.”

Frank didn’t seem particularly interested in her story, or particularly likely to believe that Claire herself wasn’t being a nuisance, but at least conceded condescendingly, “Well, it may have been a contract player or supernumerary or some such thing. What was this actor's name?” 

“Jamie Fraser,” Claire said. “He was very personable; he didn’t seem to be bothered at all.”

Frank visibly tensed as he shifted gears. “Ah.”

“What?” Claire asked, baffled by his strange behavior.

“I don’t think it wise for you to spend time with the actors in this production - at least, not the ones who are actually from Scotland. They’re far too political, love.”

“Political? How so?”

Frank sighed. “Fraser, in particular, is one of those Society of the White Rose types - you know, a Scottish nationalist... a little too appropriate for his role as a Jacobite, if you ask me.”

“I don’t know that I see anything wrong with that,” Claire said, feeling oddly defensive of her new friend. Claire knew a fair amount about the Jacobite rebellion from listening to Frank, and while she did not have particularly strong feelings about it, she could certainly empathize with the Scot if he did.

“Actors should not get involved in politics,” Frank retorted. “Or at least, if they must, they shouldn’t make their.... disdainful stances so widely known.”

“Ah,” Claire replied, staring out at the scenery. She and Frank didn’t often fight, but when they did, she knew that it would be best to agree to disagree. 

She felt Frank’s hand on her knee, and slowly moved her hand down to his. 

“But how was your day, other than that?” He asked gently.

Claire took a deep breath, made herself smile, and began to tell him.

Work had been fine; fun, even, once she got the hang of it. She was one of several young women - disproportionately all seeming to be named Mary - who were to type copies of everything from whole scripts to new pages for each day of shooting; pay on a commission basis meant that quickness and accuracy were highly rewarded, and Claire loved the challenge. One of the Mary’s - a slight, nervous looking girl with a bit of a speech impediment - had told Claire that sometimes, in a pinch, casting directors even pulled typists in for non speaking roles in scenes.

“I-I have n-never gone, b-but do you know who L-Laoghaire Mackenzie is? S-she used to type, and n-now she’s a contract player after they p-picked her one day.” 

Claire didn’t know who the actress was, but nonetheless nodded encouragingly and said that yes, it would be amazing to climb the ranks in that way.

On her lunch break, she had, again, seen her new friend Mr. Fraser in the company cafeteria - she didn’t approach him then, just returned his smile and wave, but she nonetheless left this part out of the story she told Frank. It wasn’t worth the fight; she couldn’t help but hope to herself, though, that it would become a regular occurrence.

*****

Jamie Fraser threw open the door to his temporary bungalow on the studio lot and flung his script on a chair. Christ, it had been a day. Waking up late, getting into costume late, and therefore being late to having his continuity photos taken; it was all a mess; coupled with the rehearsal where he learned of the infuriating changes that the Oxfordian wanted to make to the script - to be more fair to the English, of all things... Christ. 

The Oxfordian.

And his wife. 

Jamie smiled slightly at the memory of the clever, fierce, beautiful woman he had quite literally run into earlier that day. His banter with her was the only good thing that had happened, and she was married to such an intolerable bastard... how? The two couldn’t be more different, in his experience.

A shiver ran up his spine. And why did this woman, who he was certain he had never met in his life, seem so eerily familiar - and dear - to him already? Working in film, he was surrounded by striking women - women who made quite the impression on anyone they met - but he had never met anyone who had this specific effect on him before. Jamie knew he would have remembered her if they had met during the war - she wasn’t the sort of woman that a man could forget or misremember, striking as she was. It was all so very unusual, and he felt off balance from it. 

A knock at his door brought him from his thoughts.

Murtagh, his godfather and agent, was on the other side with a bottle of whisky. “Wee dram after a tough day?” 

“Aye,” Jamie welcomed him in. Anything for some distraction from his day.

The Sassenach didn’t leave his thoughts all night, though, especially when a slightly drunk Murtagh began complaining about Frank Randall.

“And d’ye HEAR how feckin’ POSH he sounds when he’s correctin’ wee bits of ‘historical inaccuracy’?” Murtagh scoffed, disgusted. “It shouldna BE accuracy at all, to be clear - but it’s a bloody film we’re workin’ on, no’ a history documentary.”

Jamie nodded. He understood - to a point - a positive spin on the English in this picture, as they had, of course, been allies of the Americans in the war - but the man seemed determined to, in the name of “historical accuracy”, create some kind of ode to British military power.

“He’s no’ a very pleasant man, is he?” 

Murtagh raised his eyebrows at Jamie. “Out wi’ it, lad.”

“What?”

“I can hear ye thinkin’ from over here; ye’ve been lost in your thoughts all night. Out wi’ it.”

“Nothin’, goistidh,” Jamie assured him. “It’s just been a long day, ye ken?”

Murtagh examined his godson carefully. “Aye,” he said. “It has, at that.” The older man stood. “I reckon I’ll take my leave; let the star get his beauty rest, aye?” 

Jamie snorted. “Aye, I need all the help I can get,” he said, walking his godfather to the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Claire’s opportunity to fill in on set came quickly - at the end of her second week, in fact.

A very harried looking woman came in during the middle of the morning that day. Claire had just a few more pages to type before knocking out another script, but the room buzzed with energy from the other girls, and Claire assumed it meant that at least one of them would be moved to a sound stage for the day. 

Mrs. Fitz, the supervisor, met the casting director and conferred briefly. Claire tried her hardest to keep her eyes on her work, though the temptation to try to guess who would be called was very real. 

“Mrs. Randall - could we speak with you?” 

Claire stood, aware of the eyes of all the other women on her as she crossed the room. 

“I’m Millie Nelson,” the woman announced, sticking her hand out for Claire to shake. 

“How do you do-“ Claire started, but was cut off. 

“Yes, you’ll do fine,” she said briskly. “Follow me, please.” 

Claire did as she was told, casting a look back in time to see Mary smiling broadly at her and some of the other young women looking rather less than pleased. 

“So you’ll be filling in as a young widow today,” Millie said as they walked. “No lines, of course, but it’s a scene where Jamie Fraser’s character - Mac Dubh - will rescue you and your children from a redcoat. We’re lucky - you look like you’ll fit the costume perfectly, and all you need to do is look terrified in the background during the fight - maybe a swoon or two, but we’ll leave that up to the director. Got it?”

Claire nodded. “Got it,” she confirmed. 

“Good.” 

What felt like mere moments later, Claire was being laced into a voluminous tartan dress. Her hair was piled atop of her head - “those curls will hide the fact that it’s not a real updo,” the costume mistress assured her - and Claire was rushed onto the set. 

“She’s perfect,” the director announced upon seeing Claire, who, for her part, was thoroughly enraptured by it all. “Alright Miss, so you know what the scene is?”

Claire nodded. “Defenseless widow who is rescued by - Mac Dubh, is it?” 

The director nodded. “Yes. So it’s going to be important, sweetheart, that you stay on your marker here-“ he gestured to an X on the ground, “-so you don’t wind up in the way during the fight. You have any acting experience?” 

“A little,” Claire said. It was true that she had enjoyed performing in little USO skits during the war, but was starting to feel a bit as though she had been chosen by mistake.

“Great, great. So we’ll walk through it once so you can get a feel for it, and then we’ll do a few takes. Don’t look at the camera and it’ll all be fine, sweetheart.”

Claire nodded, her heart starting to race. Where was Frank? Would he watch her acting debut? She couldn’t decide if it would help or make her more nervous.

“Sassenach!” 

Claire turned to see Jamie approaching her, a wide grin on his face and arms raised welcomingly. 

“Well, hello, Mac Dubh,” Claire said, as she curtsied - and immediately felt like an absolute idiot for doing so. 

“Your servant, madam,” Jamie said, bowing deeply in return, his eyes sparkling with good humor. 

“I hear you’re to save me from a redcoat today,” Claire commented. “I must thank you in advance.”

“Aye,” Jamie grinned. “I’ll have a wee fight, which you’ll get to see so many times it’s boring, and then I’ll dash off to help the next damsel in distress.”

“As one does,” Claire laughed. “Any acting advice for a newcomer?” 

“Less is more. Ye dinna need to fash over it; respond honestly, protect the bairn, and it’ll take care of itself.”

“The bairn?” Claire asked. 

“Your wee prop bairn,” Jamie said, indicating to a bundle on a table just off set. 

“Ah,” Claire nodded as a bell rang. 

“You’ll be brilliant, Sassenach,” Jamie said, grabbing and squeezing her hand gently before turning away. 

A production assistant handed Claire her baby, and Jamie his sword, and they began to walk through the scene.

Her part was easy enough; looking terrified as the redcoat approached her and scared as Jamie fought; then looking at him with awe and gratitude before he dashed off to whatever was to happen in the next scene. 

Though Claire knew it was all acting, she found herself honestly invested in Jamie’s performance. Even marking through the sword fight with the redcoat, carefully observed by someone who must have choreographed the fight, Claire’s heart pounded with anxiety at each near miss. It was remarkable, really, and each time the director yelled “cut” and the bell rang, Claire was legitimately jolted out of the scene. 

At the announcement that everyone would “take five”, Jamie approached her again.

“You’re a natural, Sassenach,” he said warmly. “Truly.” 

“Me? What about you? You’re doing a brilliant job. That fight...”

“Claire!” She spun around at the sound of Frank’s voice. He stood, looking rather displeased, just off the set.

“My husband,” she said to Jamie, who nodded tersely as she walked away. 

“I thought I told you not to associate with these Scottish actors,” Frank said. His voice was full of quiet intensity, and Claire knew he was barely holding back his anger.

“We’re in a scene together - what would you have me do?” Claire replied shortly. “Refuse to acknowledge him?”

“You’re being too familiar with him, Claire. It wouldn’t hurt you to show some professionalism.” And with that, before Claire could respond, Frank turned on his heel and walked off. 

Claire stood there for... she didn’t honestly know how long, processing how Frank has just spoken to her. 

“Lass, are ye alright?” 

“I’m fine, thank you,” Claire said, trying her hardest to force her glass face into something resembling happiness as she turned to face Jamie. 

Whether or not it worked, he had the grace to not push it any further.

“Right. Well, we only have a few more takes before we’re done with this scene... Sassenach, I wanted to tell ye that this could be something ye actually do, ken? No’ jus typing scripts, but acting professionally. Keep it in mind.” He smiled at her then, and despite her anger at Frank, she genuinely smiled back. 

“Thank you, Jamie, that means a lot,” she said sincerely. 

The director called places again, and he winked at her - a ridiculous, owlish look that made her laugh outright. “You’ve got this, Sassenach,” he said as he took his place again.

*****

After he was done filming for the day and back in his modern clothes, Jamie visited Murtagh’s temporary office. 

“Murtagh, I found a new actor who needs classes and representation. Can ye help?” 

Murtagh glanced up from the mountain of paperwork on his desk. “Must be a talented one if ye decided to advocate for him already. This actor something special?”

“Aye. Aye, _she_ is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two in a day again? Whaaaaat?
> 
> This isn’t really how modern film sets work, but it was less uncommon back in the day.. and anyway, if Ryan Murphy can fuck with how classic Hollywood works for his purposes, so can I.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it’s been a minute...

_1952_

_“How have you... how have you been?” Claire asked him, her heart pounding in her chest. He looked good. Different, but good. Though it had been less than five years since their last meeting, somehow any boyish softness had left his face; his hair, shorter, almost styled into submission but for a few unruly curls near the nape of his neck._

_“Good,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. His expression was unreadable, but for his eyes. “And you?”_

_“Oh, fine,” Claire said._

_The silence was heavy between them — neither wanting to speak, but neither wanting to break the connection._

_So, Claire continued, her eyes drifting down to his left hand. “I believe congratulations are in order?” Her voice was colder than she meant, but seeing him almost flinch at it, she couldn’t bring herself to feel bad._

_“Aye, I suppose.”_

*****

1947

Claire wouldn’t learn until much later — too late for it to do any good — who had caused her second workday interruption in a row. She had barely made it into the building when one of a seemingly unending stream of production assistants took her by the arm. 

“Mrs. Randall, you’ve been requested elsewhere today,” was what she was initially told before being deposited, rather unceremoniously, in a large room filled with tables and chairs.

No one else was there; she wondered if the PA had unlocked the wrong door by mistake. But that wasn’t likely, so good were they at their jobs... so, perplexed, Claire began to wander around. Books on the history of film, collected plays and screenplays, and texts on acting theory were stacked on more tables than not.

Just as she was beginning to think there had been a serious mistake, the door opened and a stately woman entered. Her gait was rather curious; she walked slowly, and rather stiffly, almost as though she was trying to avoid bumping into anything. The though had just occurred to Claire when she noticed the cane in the woman’s hand. Vision impaired or even blind, then, Claire realized.

“Mrs. Randall,” the woman said. It wasn’t a question, nor was it a request for confirmation of Claire’s presence.

“I’m here,” Claire said, walking over to the woman.

“I’m Jocasta Cameron-Innes, and I run this studio,” the woman announced, giving Claire a distinct impression that she absolutely should have already known that.

“Oh, hello,” Claire said. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Innes.”

The woman waved her hand. “Jocasta.”

“Right,” Claire said. “Please do call me Claire, then.”

“Come closer, Claire,” Jocasta replied. “Let me see you.”

Confused, Claire obeyed, stopping about an arms length from Jocasta, who immediately raised her hand up.

“Closer, dear,” Jocasta said impatiently, and Claire realized what she meant.

Jocasta ran her fingers over Claire’s face, delicate as breath. “You’re tall,” she commented, “but reasonably pretty. You’ll do well enough.”

“Well enough for what?” Claire asked.

Jocasta snorted. “My dear. For acting. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” 

“I’m not sure that you’ve got the right person—“ Claire started. 

Jocasta waved her hand. “Nonsense. You did the scene on the Jacobite picture, didn’t you? You’re here to act. And now, we’re going to make sure you learn. That accent is far too... English, my dear. We’ll get you doing a nice Mid Atlantic in no time, and you’ll start landing speaking roles.”

Claire contemplated for just a moment. On one hand, she was hired to type, and she knew that Frank would be less than pleased if she abandoned that for acting. On the other... Being on that sound stage had been the most fun Claire had experienced in years. 

“All right, I’ll do it,” Claire said. “When do we begin?” 

Jocasta smiled, and beckoned for Claire to follow her.

*****

“You’ve done what?” Frank asked, his voice deceptively calm. Claire knew him well enough to know that it was all a facade; Frank was going to be in a hideous mood and they’d have a terrible fight. 

“I just agreed to take acting classes, that’s all.” Claire said calmly. “As a company player, I’ll even make a little more—“

“Do you really think money is the issue, Claire?” Frank sneered. “You could be more direct about your intention to whore about, dear.”

Claire gaped at him, shocked at the directness of his accusation. It was no secret that he didn’t appreciate other men paying attention to her, but to make such an accusation outright... “I beg your pardon?” 

“My darling, you know how actresses are, and the fact that you’re so eager to become one...” Frank spoke as though she were a small child. “If I had to guess — did your new Scottish friend have something to do with this?”

“What? No,” Claire retorted, her blood boiling with his condescension and completely baseless accusation. “You’re being massively unfair, Frank.” 

“I’m looking out for you, Claire, since apparently you haven’t the sense to do it yourself.”

“I can look out for myself, thank you,” Claire said, and with that, grabbed her hat, purse, and gloves and walked out of the house. 

Frank didn’t chase after her, didn’t follow her at all. 

It was a relief, in a way, if also an almost darkly hilarious contradiction with his declared intent to look out for her.

But their street was fairly quiet and Claire was, honestly, too upset to show any real concern for her safety. If someone wanted to accost her, well, they could be a stand-in for her current anger at Frank, for all she was concerned. 

Honestly, how could he? He’d been jealous before, certainly, but those times had been almost endearing. The aggressive, angry accusation that had just occurred was a far cry from that, and even further from when Frank had, unprompted, told her that he would have understood if she had taken lovers while they were separated during the war. She hadn’t, for the record, though God knew she’d had ample opportunities —

And, unbidden, her mind turned to her new Scottish friend. She didn’t think his intentions were anything other than honorable; he’d been nothing but kind and helpful to her at work, which was, honestly, almost more than she could say for her own husband, who she almost never saw from when they parted in the car park to when they were reunited again at the end of the day — excluding, of course, that one day on set where he had humiliated her in front of said friend. It was completely unacceptable, and she couldn’t, for the life of her, understand what had brought on such a strong reaction.

It was true that Frank had a bit of a bigoted streak — she’d been quite embarrassed by him when they had stopped to gas up their car recently and he’d deliberately avoided the African American pump boy at the station, driving right past him to the next white boy he’d seen; similarly, one night where they’d visited a highly recommended Mexican restaurant (to her delight— it wasn’t a cuisine she’d often tried before), he had been quite the condescending brute to the poor server who was clearly multilingual. She’d tried to talk to him about it after the fact, but he had — of course — told her he’d just “had a hard time understanding” the young man, that he didn’t mean anything by it. She hadn’t believed him, and had, to be honest, felt rather differently towards him ever since those instances.

She supposed it was possible, then, that Jamie’s Scottishness was what offended Frank; she thought it ridiculous that he would hold a grudge based on a conflict from centuries ago, but it wouldn’t be the first bizarre attitude he’d held as a historian. 

If she was honest with herself, however, she imagined it was simply jealousy over how Jamie looked. She was secure enough in her marriage to acknowledge that he was a striking man; it made all the sense in the world that he was a rising film star. If that was Frank’s issue, she feared they were in the wrong city — everyone in Los Angeles was beautiful, after all, at least in the film industry, and she rather doubted that would change any time soon. She didn’t want to avoid making friends while they were here, but perhaps it was what was necessary until Frank calmed down a bit. 

Or maybe he would calm down a bit by the time she got home and they could have a civilized discussion. her walk had helped her rein in her temper somewhat, though she was still less than thrilled with her husband’s accusation and general behavior, and she hoped the same would be true of him as she turned back around to head home.

She made her way up the walk to their little bungalow again, ready to have a civil conversation with Frank, when she heard him on the phone through the open kitchen window. His voice was low, quiet, and she couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. 

Quietly opening the door, she slipped into the house. She didn’t know why she was spying on her husband — showing as little faith in him as he showed in her — but something told her she needed not to be noticed. 

Frank’s voice, still from the kitchen, was slightly more audible now, as was the low, breathy chuckle he let out in response to something said on the other line. 

“I miss you, too, darling,” he murmured flirtatiously. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

And Claire realized another reason why Frank might take issue with her friendship with Jamie.

His own guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, Fuck Frank.
> 
> And dinna fash — Claire and Jamie are always endgame.

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck Frank 🙃
> 
> And sorry in advance the Laoghaire is the worst. 
> 
> Catch me on the bird app @ catrinmo1


End file.
